


He's Gone

by jooliewrites



Series: Season 2 Coliver Codas [7]
Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Angst, Coda, Episode Related, Episode: s02e07 I Want You to Die, Episode: s02e08 Hi I'm Philip, M/M, Missing Persons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 20:29:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5178581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jooliewrites/pseuds/jooliewrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor comes home to find Oliver gone. </p><p>+</p><p>An 2x07 Coda</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter originally posted on [tumblr](http://ramblesandreblogs.tumblr.com/post/132744402188/another-coliver-2x07-coda-in-habit-connor-slips).
> 
> Note: Since it hasn't aired yet, this doesn't contain any _actual_ spoilers for 2x08 but it does reference lines from the promo (just in case anyone is looking to avoid all spoilers).

In habit, Connor slips his key first into the deadbolt but puzzles when he turns the key and nothing happens. The deadbolt isn’t locked meaning Oliver didn’t flip it when he came home.

Shaking his head a bit, with exasperation and affection because Oliver _always_ forgets to flip the deadbolt secure, Connor moves on to unlock the knob but it turns easily in his hand.

Oliver forgot to lock both? That seems…strange.

A hint of unease slips down his spine as Connor swings the door open wide and steps in.

“Oliver,” Connor calls out as he walks into the apartment. The silence that echoes back roars a bit too loud in his ears.

The apartment seems…still. Too still. The dusk motes in the air, illuminated by light spilling in from the street, don’t even look they’re moving.

And it’s so quiet in 303. Much too quiet. There’s no bustle of Oliver moving about or music from his phone filling the space; no muffled laugh track coming in through the walls from the neighbor’s late night TV.

“Oliver!” Connor’s voice comes out harsh. There’s a bite in it to mask the panic beginning to bubble in his veins.

Then he turns the corner and sees the milk spilled on the floor and the carton on it’s side in front of the open fridge.

The liquid is pooled in a puddle and is slowly inching along the floor following a seam in the tile. The air is scented with a tang from it, just a light one; not quite bitter or sour yet just a slight hint of both to come.

So the milk’s still fresh. Just sitting there. Innocently waiting to be mopped up.

“Oliver!” There’s more than bite of panic in the word now. It’s a desperate plea trying to hold on to it’s anger with a slick grip.

Connor storms through the few rooms of 303. He tears open doors to whip aside the shower curtain and push clothing to and fro. He gets on his knees to check under the bed and couch and double checks behind furniture Oliver couldn’t conceivably fit behind just to make sure.

Connor’s searching for the other half of him and comes up empty.

With a shaking hand, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials. It rings and rings while he scours 303 once more.

“Hi! This is Oliver,” the voicemail starts and Connor ends the call just to redial it.

The second search is just as fruitless as the first when Oliver’s voice tings in Connor’s ear again. “Hi! This is Oliver.” He redials again.

Without fully recognizing what he’s doing, Connor slams out of the apartment. His hand’s shaking too much to get the key into the lock so he shoves the phone up with his shoulder and uses two hands to get the door secured.

“Hi! This is Oliver.”

He takes the stairs because the elevator down is too fucking slow and shoves open the door to the parking lot. It bangs against the concrete wall with a mighty crash that Connor could give a fuck about.

“Hi! This is Oliver.”

The drive back to the Keating House is wild and fast. Stoplights are merely suggestions. The rules of the road are for people whose loved ones answer the goddamn phone.

“Hi! This is Oliver.”

The car tires squeal as Connor whips into the driveway and slams on the breaks. He turns off the car with an afterthought and barrels out onto the lawn to check the drive.

Oliver’s car isn’t there.

It’s full with Annalise’s car and Bonnie’s. Frank’s and Asher’s. Laurel’s is still parked on the street where it was an hour ago and Wes’s bike is propped up on the side of the house. But there’s no sign of Oliver’s among the gathered.

Connor didn’t realize how much he’d expected Oliver’s car, _Oliver_ , to be here. Oliver safe inside, looking up lord knows what for Annalise or Frank. Ignoring Connor’s calls because he knows Connor wouldn’t approve.

Oliver isn’t here.

“Hi! This is Oliver.”

With a half of a broken sob, Connor pulls the phone away from his ear to stare at.

If Oliver isn’t at home and isn’t here and isn’t answering then…

“Connor?”

Connor whips his head around at Michaela’s question to see her standing on the porch. Hugging her arms around her chest to ward off the chill in the air, she’s framed in the open front door and Connor slowly walks forward like a moth drawn to flame.

Stepping up to stand with her on the porch, Connor looks back out to the driveway. Why had he been so sure Oliver would be here?

“What’s going on?” Michaela asks, lifting a hand to his arm. The squeal of his tires had caught their attention inside and she’d peeked out the window to see who was showing up so late. There something about the way he was standing on the lawn, the uneerie stillness in his posture, that’d drawn her out to fetch him. “Thought you went home for the night.”

“He’s gone,” Connor whispers. It’s breathless and small and Connor’s blood runs cold with the admission.

“What?”

“Oli…Oliver.” He stumbles over the word, the name. His name. “He’s not at home. He’s not…he’s gone.”

Through a daze, Connor finds himself inside, most likely Michaela tugging him in out of the cold. If she’d asked Connor would have told her not to bother; he couldn’t feel the chill.

He can’t feel anything.

Oliver is gone.

They pester him with questions and Connor does his best to answer but it’s hard to get words out over the panic choking him. Then Laurel tries to reassure with a meaningless platitude and Connor goes for her throat, letting go briefly of the slippery grip he has on his rage.

Rage is easier than fear and worry. Rage Connor understands.

In terror he snaps out at all of them that “Anything that happens to him is on you!” but Connor’s not really talking to them. He’s talking to himself.

At one point, amidst the commentary and speculation and planning, Connor slips away. Hiding off in the kitchen to have his breakdown in peace, he takes a seat at the kitchen table and slips his phone out of his pocket to dial again.

“Please,” he begs to anyone who may be listening. “Please answer.”

But no one is. And, as the phone rings on, Connor lets the tears and terror, the storm of emotions he’s been holding back, consume him. Over the sobs, Connor hears it, once again.

“Hi! This is Oliver.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter originally posted on [tumblr](http://ramblesandreblogs.tumblr.com/post/132824848178/yet-more-coliver-2x07-coda-first-came-up).

“Came up empty.” Frank’s voice cuts through the air and Connor startles in his seat at Annalise’s table.

“Nothing at all there?” Connor whips around to see Annalise sitting to his right with her hand gently covering his. When had she joined him?

“Nada,” Frank says. “No sign of a struggle or break in. Place was clean.” He huffs a bit. “Well, clean enough.” Then to Connor, “I picked up a few things. Would it kill you or your boytoy to dust once in a while?”

“You went to our house!” Connor begins, ignoring the insult to Oliver. He’ll deal with that later. He starts to stand up and confront Frank. How dare he go there? What was he thinking? “What the hell-!”

Annalise’s hand tightens on Connor’s. “I sent him over there.”

Connor turns on her; his anger vicious and wild. “Why? Why would you do that? What’s the point of-?”

“You weren’t telling us anything.”

“I was! I told you.” Hadn’t she been _listening_? “I came home and-” Connor begins again.

“Yes. You came home and Oliver was gone. And now he’s not picking up his phone,” Annalise finishes. She takes her hand off Connor’s and leans back in her chair a little. “That doesn’t give me much.”

“But…but the milk! And the serial killer! And…and-!” Connor spits out. What the hell was she talking about that _that_ didn’t give her much? What was she even saying right now? “We need to call the police!”

“He hasn’t been gone long enough for them to do anything,” Annalise explains slowly, like she is talking to a child. Maybe, in a way, she is. “And besides, what do you think they are going to do?”

“They can-”

“They’re going to look at you.” Annalise pauses to let the words sink in through Connor’s panic. “You call and tell them he’s missing and you are going to be their only suspect.”

“But that Phillip guy!” Connor protested. “He’s the one who-!”

“But see, you can’t just tell them about Phillip.” Annalise leans in again, keeping her tone calm and cool. Just the facts, no emotion. “You’d have to explain the hacking. The cyber crimes and privacy violations. Explain how Oliver’s been breaking state and, in some cases, federal laws for months now. Is that what you want? Oliver found only so they can throw him in jail.”

“But,” Connor starts to object. His mind is moving a thousand miles a minute but nothing is coming clearer. “But he-”

“So, no,” she answers for him. “You couldn’t tell them about Phillip without raising suspicion.” After a brief pause, Annalise goes on. “That just leaves the police with you again. The boyfriend who I’m told Oliver was fighting with before he disappeared.”

“No. That’s not-!” Connor tries but Frank is quicker.

“That’s true,” Frank cut in. He’s leaned a hip against the island and crossed his arms, adopting a conversational tone full of false sincerity. “Saw both of them in the office just a few hours ago. Clearly they were fighting about something. No. Not sure what it was but looked pretty serious to all of us.”

“Yeah. I didn’t want my boyfriend to go on a date with serial killer!” Connor screams.

“But they aren’t going to know that, are they?” Annalise challenges before giving Frank a hard look. Not only is he playing this too close to the edge, she doesn’t want him for a second to believe she’s forgotten the part he played in that monumentally stupid plan. Then, back to Connor, she continues, “And besides its more than just the recent fighting. They will pick apart your relationship because they have nothing else to go on. You are going to become the only reason Oliver would disappear.”

“There’s nothing for them to find,” Connor spits out, offended she’d even insinuate.

“Really. I hear you moved in recently. Living together is always bound to create some tension,” Annalise says casually. “And I hear you moved in pretty quickly too. Any reason for jumping so fast?”

“We wanted to,” Connor says.

“Hmm.” The doubt in her hum makes Connor’s blood boil. “I hear you two had just gotten over a break up. Seems awfully fast to get back together and then, a second later, share an address, don’t you think?” She pauses again, deliberately. “What was the reason for that break up?”

“That’s none of your-”

“We hear it was infidelity. That _had_ to have created some problems. Then there are recent,” Annalise cocks her head to the side and debates how to phrase this, “ _medical_ developments. That must have added a whole other wrinkle to the relationship. So things weren’t really looking all that great when-”

“Enough!” Connor bit out. He stands up so quickly his chair falls to the floor with a crash they all ignore.

How does she know all of this? How does she have all of this ready and waiting to pull out with a moments notice? Was she _really_ having them all followed? Was the house bugged?

“Stop treating me like the suspect!” Connor demands.

“I’m treating you like my client,” Annalise corrects, her tone turning angry as well. “That is what the police will do if you call them. There is nothing they can do for you except get both of you in further trouble.”

“They can find him!”

“We can do more than they can right now.” Annalise stands to approach him, cautious like she is walking up to a wild animal. She lays a hand on Connor’s shoulder. “You need to trust me, Connor.”

He jerks his shoulder away. “Don’t touch me.”

Annalise grips her hands tightly together and lets him have his moment. She understands the effort it takes to hold down a fury of emotion when it threatens to overtake you. “Connor,” she says, gently this time, “We will find him.“

“You’d better,” Connor tells her. It’s low and dark. Not a threat but a promise. The most sacred vow he’s ever made. If a hair is harmed on Oliver’s head Connor is taking this entire house down. Brick by brick if he has do. It doesn’t even matter to him that he might be burned too in the blaze just so long as the lot of _them_ are burned to ash.

Annalise nods. “I promise. We will find him.”

“Don’t make promise you can’t keep,” Connor bites out before storming back out into the living room.

He doesn’t trust Annalise, not for a moment, but he listens to her for now. Recognizing in some corner of his mind that she is right. The police aren’t an option right now and probably wouldn’t be an option for him at all.

Sometimes, Connor supposes watching Frank filter in and out of the living room and office, it is easier to dance with the devil you know.

So, he stays at the Keating House through the night. Trying to help them all track down leads and come up with theories but he mostly Connor just sits. Off in the corner and out of the way, Connor sits through the night and tries not to think of what horrific scenario Oliver may be in at that exact moment.

Oliver is okay. Oliver is fine. Oliver is fine because Connor _needs_ him to be fine. Not a want or desire but a need as basic and necessary as food and water.

Then as the sun begins to rise and, tired of sitting around and doing nothing, Connor digs in his pockets for his keys. All of them are wrong. Sitting around here all night had done nothing to get Oliver back. None of their theories or leads had panned out in the slightest and Connor isn’t playing this game anymore. He is calling the shots now. He is the one they are all going to listen to. And he is going over to Philip’s house and bringing Oliver home. Oliver is there and everyone one knows it. Connor doesn’t care about the Hapstalls and the racist dead aunt and the danger and unknown. He is getting Oliver back and that’s the end of this nightmare.

However, he finds nothing but lint in his pockets and, when she sees him patting down his jacket and double checking his pants again, Michaela gives Connor a sad smile. Joining him on the stairs, she hands him his keyring. The apartment and building keys are there but his car key is gone.

When Connor just looks at her with question she simply answers, “Frank.” Then, after a moment, “And Annalise. And, well, me.” His gaze turns dark and she looks away. “We were worried you’d do something stupid.”

Connor wants to argue with her that going to get Oliver at Philip’s isn’t stupid. It’s the best plan he’s had all night. But Michaela’s still talking.

“Laurel said she’d give us both a ride home whenever we want.” Michaela ventures a smile at him but Connor’s never felt less like smiling. “We could run you home so you could shower or sleep a little. Change your clothes.”

Connor doesn’t see the point in doing any of that but he realizes he needs to get out of the Keating house before he breaks. Breaks something. Breaks someone.

Which is how, freshly showered and changed, he finds himself standing in the kitchen of 303 and staring at the clean floor.

Frank must have cleaned up the milk.

Connor tells himself he can still see the outline of the it, that the pool of liquid stained the tile, but knows it’s just a trick of his mind. Frank did his job well. The kitchen is spotless and tidy.

Actually, the entire apartment is spotless and tidy.

In addition to mopping up the milk, Frank must have set everything back to rights. In his frantic search before, Connor’d upended cushions and left closet doors ajar. He’d torn through the bathroom and shoved furniture aside in the living room. But now everything’s back in it’s place. Nice and neat.

Looking out at it all makes Connor’s stomach turn. It’s all _too_ nice and much _too_ neat.

The blanket Oliver drapes over Connor when Connor falls asleep studying on Sunday afternoons is artfully arranged over a chair but it’s supposed to be on the back of the couch. The mess of Oliver’s electronic crap (most of which Connor’s convinced doesn’t actually work) is neatly ordered on the desk but it’s normally in boxes shoved under the coffee table so Oliver can mess with all of it while he watches TV.

Everything is off, a millimeter here and a half step there, and the thought of Frank walking through their home, touching Oliver’s things, makes Connor shudder.

Their shoes are messed up just so to look normal to someone else but Connor knows it isn’t right. That lamp that he must have knocked over before is angled over the chair when it’s supposed to be over the couch. The meds they’ve left out on the counter are all rearranged.

Connor stares at them, his eyes flat and cold, before reaching out. He ignores how his hand shakes a little and rearranges the bottles so they are in the right order. He picks up one of those he moves to the front and turns it in his hand to read the label.

Oliver Hampton.

Connor brushes a thumb over the name and quells down the frantic worry. It’s supposed to be taken the same time everyday. They have alarms on their phones set with the same reminder as if either of them would forget. Oliver’s not supposed to miss a dose.

Setting the bottle carefully back down, Connor goes back to staring at the clean tile and debates what to do next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://ramblesandreblogs.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://ramblesandreblogs.tumblr.com)


End file.
